Let It Be
by Joodiff
Summary: Pre-series, set in 1994. When a recently-acquainted Boyd and Grace decide it might be a good idea to get to know each other a bit better, there's more than one surprise ahead... Rated T for language and content. Sort of a prequel to "Stability". Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 **Warning:** _This fic is T-rated, but sensitive souls should be aware that it contains a very small amount of adult content that some may feel should be rated a little higher. If this is likely to cause offence, please don't read._

 **A/N:** _This pre-series WtD story was inspired by a few stray lines of dialogue in_ "Stability" _, the fic Got Tea and I recently wrote together, but it is not necessary to have read one to go ahead and read the other._

 **Gifted to Got Tea, who richly deserves a little treat right about now. :)**

* * *

 **Let It Be**

by Joodiff

* * *

 **London, July 1994**

"Brazil," Boyd says in answer to her question, demonstrating an understated, old-fashioned courtesy as he refills her glass for her, "no question."

He's very different off-duty, Grace reflects, or perhaps with an arrest finally made and a full confession duly obtained he's simply not as stressed, and is therefore not as brusque and quick-tempered as he has been for the three difficult weeks they've spent working together. She's even starting to be grateful that she went against all her instincts and agreed to go out to dinner with him. Amused by the touch of cocky certainty in his tone, she can't resist saying, "Ah, but don't underestimate the Italians, Boyd."

"Oh, I don't," he assures her from the other side of the table, his gaze speculative and intent. Putting down the now empty wine bottle, he adds, "You're full of surprises, aren't you, Doctor?"

She doesn't point out that she could say the same about him. Instead, she raises an eyebrow. "Because I know a bit about football?"

"That, too," he says, leaving her to ponder what else he's referring to. She watches as he turns a fraction to catch the waiter's eye, finds herself admiring his strong, hawkish profile and wondering why it's taken her until tonight to notice just how good-looking he is. Early forties, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair is just starting to show a hint of grey at the temples, and his even darker eyes are intelligent and compelling. The sort of eyes Grace suspects she could easily lose herself in, given half a chance. Physically, he is most definitely her type. She's rather less sure about his abrasive, bullish personality, but he's certainly showing her a different side of his character tonight. A second bottle of wine duly ordered, Boyd's attention returns to her. "So, will you watch the match on Sunday morning?"

"I don't know," she replies, although it's unlikely that she'll bother. Reflecting on how tired she is after the last few challenging and busy weeks, she grimaces. "It seems wrong to get up so early at the weekend, even for the World Cup Final."

"No television in your bedroom, then?"

She can't decide if the question is intended to be as arch as it sounds. Deciding it's far better to be safe than sorry and to assume that it's not, she simply shakes her head. "No."

"Good. I approve. Bedrooms should be reserved for only two activities. Three, at the very most."

He's so deadpan that Grace simply can't tell how he expects her to respond. It's frustrating – both as a woman and as a psychologist. She's already discovered, of course, that he's often deliberately contrary, seeming to thrive on intentionally putting other people's hackles up, but she's beginning to wonder if belligerence and confrontation isn't something of a private sport for him, a way of testing other people's reactions. Determined not to be out-done in whatever enigmatic game it is they're playing, she counters, "I suppose it would be impolite of me to suggest that that demonstrates a certain… lack of imagination… on your part?"

She doesn't expect the grin Boyd gives her in reply. An easy, mischievous grin that is both incorrigibly wicked and improbably boyish. It suits him, changes the sombre character of his face completely. He lifts his glass a fraction in her direction. " _Touché_."

The subtle gleam of gold on his left hand as he raises it to take a sip of his wine encourages her to ask, "So… will you and your wife get up to watch it?"

The look he gives her is thoughtful, as if he's well aware that she's fishing for information and isn't quite sure whether or not to oblige, but despite a brief pause there's no hint of tension in his reply. " _I_ might, if I can be bothered. As for my wife, I really wouldn't know. She moved to Aylesbury three years ago."

It seems, then, that at least one of the few meagre snippets of personal information she's managed to glean about him over the last few weeks is true. Separated, but not divorced. She holds his steady gaze as she says, "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

Taken aback by the prompt inquiry, Grace frowns in confusion. "What?"

"Why are you sorry?"

More uneasy than she should be, she shrugs. "Well, you know…"

"It's just what you're supposed to say?" Boyd offers, his manner suggesting he's either unaware of, or simply unbothered by her increasing discomfiture. He's placid enough, though, she notes. Not irked or flustered by the brief foray into his private life. Just as she's about to speak, he adds, "There's no jealous female waiting at home, if that's what you're trying to ascertain."

"Presumptuous." It's the only word that comes to mind, but Grace delivers it without ire. It's disconcerting, his singular brand of perceptive boldness. Intriguing, too.

"Maybe," he agrees, not looking at all offended. Or, she realises, at all abashed. The deep, unfathomable dark eyes watch her with a sharp intensity that she finds far more exciting than intimidating. "What about you?"

Taking a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, she takes a moment to answer. "What about me?"

"Husband?" he asks. "Boyfriend? Other?"

A tiny unbidden thrill goes down her spine. Given the current tone of their conversation, there's little doubt about why he's asking, and his evident interest only encourages her re-evaluation of him. "Once, no, and no."

"Good."

Despite herself, Grace is fascinated by his complete self-assurance. Fascinated, and yes, just a little flattered by the rapt way he's still watching her. His body language is relaxed, almost languid, but those eyes… they tell another story altogether. Unusually flirtatious, and despising herself for it, she inquires, "Would it matter if there were?"

"It might."

"Why?" she asks, deciding to use his own tactics again him.

Again, the level, thoughtful stare is unreadable. Maybe it's something he's learnt as a police officer, or maybe it's just him – either way she takes it as a tacit challenge. Instead of answering her question, he says, "There's something about you, Grace Foley. Something that I can't quite put my finger on."

She's not prepared to admit that she's been thinking exactly the same thing about him. Maintaining a cool return gaze, she inquires, "Oh?"

"Mm." Boyd leans back in his chair, continues to study her. She picks up her wine glass again, waits for him to continue. When he does, it's to ask, "Kids?"

"Step-kids," she replies with an immediate fond smile, thinking of the two children she brought up as her own after their mother's untimely death. "Mark and Emma. Both at university now, but even though Ray and I are divorced now they still visit me regularly. You?"

"I have a son." It's delivered as a flat, closed statement, one that doesn't invite further inquiry. Perhaps he's aware of how brusque it must seem, because then he shrugs and adds, "But it's… complicated."

"Isn't that what men usually say about their marriages about ten seconds before they embark on an illicit affair?" Grace quips. There's something flinty about Boyd's expression, though, which warns her against any further levity around the subject. Deciding a rapid change of direction is in order, she asks, "So, Chief Inspector… have you changed your mind about offender profiling?"

His mood seems to shift again, becomes lighter, much less bleak. It intrigues her, the unpredictable nature of his character, the way his outlook on life, on the people around him, and on the world in general seems to change from one moment to the next. A hint of dark humour underscores, "I may have changed my mind about _you_ , but that's just about all I'm prepared to admit."

"So I'm not 'a complete waste of time and money', then?" she inquires, somehow knowing he will take the intentional barb in good part.

He does. The smile he gives her is artless. "Did I actually say that?"

"Not to my face, admittedly, but you have the kind of voice that… carries."

"I pride myself on it," he says, straight-faced. Before she can comment, he folds his discarded napkin and drops it beside his empty plate, adding, "But I thought we agreed we wouldn't talk about work tonight?"

"We did," Grace admits. She gestures in his direction with her half-empty glass. "Well, then… what does Peter Boyd do when he's not arresting people, or putting the fear of God into the lower ranks?"

"There aren't many hours left in the day once I've completed both to my satisfaction."

"Oh no, don't tell me – you're a fisherman, aren't you?" she declares in feigned horror, gambling that he's not.

Boyd laughs, the sound warmer and much more genuine than she might have expected. "Absolutely not. Life's too bloody short, Grace. By _far_. No, I play a bit of squash, go out running now and again. That sort of thing."

She grimaces. "A health fanatic. That's even worse."

"Far from it." He shakes his head. "Ten minutes after I get home from work I'm usually flat out on the sofa with a very large Scotch. What about you?"

"I don't like Scotch."

"Heresy. And that's not what I meant."

She smirks. "I know."

Boyd looks at her for a moment, as if trying to read her thoughts, and then he says, "It's a nice evening. Let's get out of here and go for a walk."

-oOo-

It's a warm night, the day's heat refusing to quite relinquish its tenacious grip on the city, and since the hour is not yet what either of them would deem as late, they walk the short distance to the canal and then amble towards Camden Lock and the quiet side street where Boyd's car is parked. He's surprisingly easy to talk to in such circumstances, she reflects, but Grace can feel an increasing edge of something between them, an odd sort of tension that she's doing her best to ignore. It's not difficult to identify it for what it is – a steadily increasing mutual attraction – but it's both unexpected and unsettling. Uncomfortable, even. After all, in truth she's known him for barely a few weeks, and for the better part of that time they've done little but bicker and disagree with each other.

The wisest course of action is to ignore… whatever it is… that's sparking between them. She doesn't need a man in her life, and she certainly doesn't need a brusque, belligerent, obstinate, quick-tempered, hyperactive –

"You okay?" Boyd inquires, startling her from her thoughts. "You're very quiet all of a sudden."

"I was thinking about Chadwick." It's a lie, but a plausible one.

"No talking about work, remember?" he reminds her. "Not tonight."

"What's special about tonight?" The words are out before Grace can stop them.

Boyd doesn't seem to be perturbed by the question. His answer is smooth, but far from glib. "Tonight is supposed to be about us getting to know each other a bit better."

Still reflecting on their all-too recent disharmony, she mutters, "Maybe we should have done that about three weeks ago."

Either he's clairvoyant, which she doubts, or his thoughts are running along very similar lines to hers, because he stops and draws her to a halt next to him. She has to look up to raise a quizzical eyebrow at him. Boyd clears his throat, releases his grip on her arm, and announces, "Look, Grace, I owe you an apology. You didn't deserve the rough ride I gave you from the moment you arrived. Fact is, Hall really pissed me off by calling you in without having the decency to inform me first – much less actually _consult_ me about it. I know that's no excuse, but…" he shrugs his broad shoulders, continues, "I shouldn't have taken it out on you. It was petty and unfair, and I'm sorry."

The honesty and simplicity of his apology is significant, Grace realises. Grateful for his lack of prevarication, she nods a grudging acceptance, but follows it with a rueful, "I work for the Home Office, Boyd – I go where I'm asked to go, and I do what I'm asked to do. My job is difficult enough without having to deal with arsey, bad-tempered coppers who have their own agendas."

He sounds amused as he says, "Well, that's put me firmly in my place, hasn't it?"

The way the street lighting casts him in harsh angular shadows makes him look even more striking, even more handsome, and makes it much more difficult for Grace to ignore the feeling that she's heading rapidly out of her depth and out into shark-infested waters. And that he just might be the shark waiting for her. Realising that she's staring fixedly at him, she looks away, not quite able to disguise how uneasy she suddenly is. Striving for nonchalance, she says, "Let's just put it down to experience, eh? Maybe next time you won't be so quick to dismiss offender profiling as some kind of pointless witchcraft."

"Oh, I don't know about that." The words come with a quick, fierce grin. "But hey, if it works, I don't really care _what_ it is. Besides, I have a bit of a thing for witches."

It's her turn to be amused. "Do you now?"

"No," Boyd admits easily, "but I think I might be developing a bit of a thing for _you_ , Doctor Foley."

For a moment Grace feels just as if someone has picked her up and spun her round and round with enough force to make her dizzy and disorientated. She recovers quickly, though, does her best to give him the kind of look that suggests more than a healthy degree of scepticism, and retorts, "Hm. I suspect that's the sauvignon blanc talking."

"You think so?"

Whether it's experience or just female instinct, Grace isn't sure, but either way she knows he's going to kiss her – and that in return she's going to do rather more than just allow him to. She's right. The only thing about it that startles her is that he doesn't pounce the way she expects him to. No, he's far more subtle than that, but the end result is the same, and within just a few seconds they are well past polite and tentative and heading rapidly for deeply exploratory. And it's good. It's very, very good, and she's almost shocked to realise just how much she's missed the exciting, erotic thrill of such heady intimacy. It's been too long. Far too long.

The moment of drawing apart is a silent, cautious one. Ridiculous for two people both in their forties, she thinks, but she doubts either of them imagined the evening would go this way when they met up at the restaurant earlier. No, both of them had visibly been on their guard then, not too sure of what to make of each other away from the busy, high-stress environment of work. Guessing that Boyd is expecting her to speak first, she offers, "Well, that was… unexpected."

"But not entirely unpleasant?"

She wants him. Wants him in the most urgent, primitive way imaginable. It astonishes her, almost appals her, how strongly she feels it. It's reckless, foolish, and the speed with which it's taken hold of her is so out of character that she's really not sure how to deal with it. Oh, she's not shy, and she's certainly a long, long way from naïve, but she's never been quite so quickly and impulsively attracted to a man. It must be complementary chemistry, or perhaps just a bizarre consequence of all the friction there's been between them. Either way –

"If you're thinking about slapping me," he says, interrupting her spiralling thoughts, "you should probably just get on with it. Optimum moment, that sort of thing."

For a moment Grace is puzzled, but then she realises she's still staring at him in complete silence. A silence it seems Boyd can't quite interpret, so counters with the dark, abstruse sense of humour she's really beginning to enjoy. "It hadn't actually occurred to me, but I don't think I'll take the risk. Thanks all the same."

"Last chance…" he offers.

"I'm not the violent type."

"No? What type are you?"

"Use your imagination."

"I am. Believe me, Grace, I am."

She's barely aware of the small distance between them dwindling again, isn't really cognisant of slipping her arms round his neck, and she hardly notices him pull her even closer and tighter. His lips are on hers again, gentle at first, then more impatient, the kiss growing in force and enthusiasm as she readily applies herself to it. It's exciting – understatement – but in a strange way it feels familiar, too, as if they've already shared dozens of fierce, intimate kisses. When they draw apart, it's more from necessity than anything else, both of them breathing hard, their eyes locking together in unspoken acknowledgement of something they maybe don't yet understand, but can both sense.

There's a wildness in his dark eyes that tells Grace everything she wants – _needs_ – to know. Against all the odds, it's not Boyd who says, "I think there's a hotel just round the corner…"

-oOo-

Even the sideways look of bored derision the receptionist gives them in reaction to their clear lack of any luggage isn't enough to force Grace to question what the hell it is she thinks she's doing. Sensitive to even the smallest nuances of expression, she notices the look, and she knows that it follows them across the small foyer to the single lift that services three floors of cheap, virtually identical rooms. She refuses to let it bother her the way it would have done in the past when she was younger, less confident, and still heavily burdened by Catholic guilt about just about everything. London is a big city, after all, full of faceless strangers and ships that pass in the night, and it's no-one's damned business but her own how she chooses to live her life. Still, the very fact that she feels defensive about it indicates –

"I hate this modern trend for swiping your credit card on arrival," Boyd complains as the lift doors close behind them and the world becomes a small, enclosed space that smells vaguely of sweat, alcohol, and tobacco. "It completely removes all the fun of signing into a place like this as 'Mr and Mrs Smith'."

Grace assumes he's joking, but she gives him a cool look anyway. "Oh, so you're an old hand at this sort of thing, are you?"

He offers a slight grin in response. "Would you think more or less of me if I admitted that it's been a good twenty years since I last bothered trying that old chestnut, or anything remotely like it?"

"I'm not entirely sure." It seems important to add, "This is entirely… out of character… for me, you know."

"What, dragging men you barely know off to cheap hotel rooms?"

Wincing, she says, "You have such a way with words, Boyd, did anyone ever tell you that?"

"It might have been mentioned once or twice." He treats her to another brief grin, one that fades as he adds, "It's not exactly my usual style, either, to be honest. Not that I'm complaining, but…"

The lift comes to a reluctant halt, the doors grumbling open to reveal a bland stretch of cream-painted corridor. Boyd reaches out and places his thumb squarely on the hold button, his gaze intent as he regards her, his unspoken question quite clear. Grace shakes her head, says, "Sometimes acting out of character just feels like the right thing to do. Don't you think?"

"I think," he replies, a solemn note heavy in his voice, "that there are some people who are just meant to be in one's life, one way or another, and when they finally catch up with you, it's best just to surrender to the inevitable."

"I'd never have taken you for a philosopher."

"Good, because I'm not. I don't believe in fate or destiny, or any of that crap, but I do believe that people – _some_ people – can have some sort of instant… connection."

"You do realise that at our age we really don't need to justify ourselves?"

"Thank Christ for that," he says, "because I'm rapidly running out of touchy-feely New Age hippie bollocks to impart."

She laughs, amused by the heartfelt note in his voice. "Well, that's a relief. It really doesn't suit you, you know. Shall we…?"

Boyd nods politely towards the corridor. "After you, Doctor."

It takes them less than a minute to find the room assigned to them and unlock the door. Stepping in, Grace finds it's everything she expected, the small room – basic and functional, with cheap furniture and fittings, but clean and tidy. She looks around, too many thoughts and emotions beginning to churn inside her again… and then Boyd is right behind her, kissing and nipping her neck with an intensity and fervour that drives any hint of doubt from her mind. Any residual trace of common-sense disappears in the face of a heady combination of excitement, recklessness, and good old-fashioned lust. The sudden impatience of her companion as he catches hold of her and simultaneously kicks the door closed behind them is electrifying. He is every bit as eager and impetuous as she expects, and she relishes it. Tonight is not the night for a gentle, elegant seduction. Caught in the kind of deep, immoderate kiss that would most definitely put a couple of hormonal teenagers to shame, Grace doesn't need to see what she's doing as she starts to unfasten the buttons of his grey shirt.

The feel of Boyd's warm bare skin under her palm as she slides her hand under the thin cloth is every bit as enticing as she expected. Highly stimulating, too, though Grace has little need of any further help in that direction. Not after their long, drawn-out dinner, and the expectant, hurried walk to the hotel. One of her hands is on his chest, and the fingers of the other seem to have wound their way into his dark hair – dense and very soft – but she doesn't need the use of either to ascertain that he's every bit as enthusiastic as she is. His excitement is profoundly male, however, and considerably more tangible than hers.

Aroused, amused, and triumphant, Grace slowly and deliberately draws her lips away from his and looks up at him. Her calculated serenity is feigned – her heart is beating fast, and every inch of her body seems to be more vibrantly alive than it has been for a long, long time. Boyd growls in response, a low, predatory noise that comes from somewhere deep in his throat. It _is_ most definitely a growl, but somehow it's a purr, too. One that makes her shiver. His gaze is hot and feral, his eyes looking almost molten in the yellowish light from the bulb above them. This is not the time for talking, but nonetheless she hears herself say, "Boyd…?"

"What?" the question is a murmur against the delicate skin of her throat, and she trembles in response. Before she can reply, he takes the initiative, somehow deducing what she's trying to find a way of saying. Still nuzzling her neck, he says, "There's probably a machine in the Gent's downstairs, if that's what's on your mind."

Grateful for his calm pragmatism, his distinct lack of any sign of embarrassment, she runs her fingers through his hair again. "It's not necessary."

Boyd doesn't ask for an explanation, just lifts his head to look at her. "Sure?"

"Sure," she confirms.

"Good, because just the thought of hearing the patter of tiny feet again…" The words trail off into a dramatic grimace.

It's that easy. As easy as returning to the fascinating task of using her palms to map the strong contours of his back and shoulders. As easy as sighing in unashamed pleasure as he returns to kissing her throat, her neck, and slides his hand up to explore the curve of her breast. It shouldn't be so easy, she thinks – should it?

It's a mistake to start thinking again. "Boyd – "

"No," is his blunt response, interrupting her before she can voice any unwelcome words. His hands move to her buttocks, pulling her even closer and deliberately squeezing. Bold, impudent, and ridiculously thrilling.

Grace can feel how hard he is, how ready he is, doesn't need him to grind his hips against her. A touch of mischief makes her respond with a deadpan, "I was just going to say – "

"I _know_ what you were just going to say."

She can't stop herself smirking. "Really?"

"Oh, I think so," Boyd tells her with a tight, fierce grin, "and trust me, it can wait until the bloody morning."

"So masterful," she teases.

He abruptly turns her loose, pivoting on his heel to break all physical contact between them. "That poor bloody excuse for a bed would look a hell of a lot more inviting with you lying naked on it, you know."

"Scandalous," she chides, but his words – and the hungry look in his dark eyes – make her shiver again. She can't quite remember the last time she found herself in a situation anything like this one, but the alcohol still in her bloodstream from dinner is doing a good job of helping to keep the worst of her worries and insecurities at bay, and it isn't apprehension that's responsible for the persistent tremors now running up and down her spine. It's desire, pure and simple. He may be both fiery and challenging, but Peter Boyd is an attractive, fascinating man, one Grace suspects will remain part of her life long after the first thrilling blaze of passion has burned itself out. Besides, the sheer magnetic force of his gaze is hypnotic, difficult to resist.

Jacket already cast aside, he pulls his shirt tails free, briskly deals with his cufflinks and the very last of his shirt buttons, finishing what she started. Settling on the edge of the bed, Grace watches with a voyeuristic thrill as he strips the garment completely, throwing it in the vague direction of the room's only chair. Shoulders, chest, stomach, her intent gaze rakes over them all, and what she sees doesn't disappoint. He's not a young man, but he has poise, a perceptible tough muscularity, and a resolute self-confidence that all form a potent and compelling combination. Shoes and socks duly disposed of, he paces towards her, and the closer he gets the more hyperaware Grace becomes of him. Of his size, his energy, his unapologetic masculinity.

Time becomes a meaningless, abstract concept as instinct and desire push them down a road of increasingly intimate and heated exploration. How many minutes, hours or days pass before it's just skin against skin without a single artificial barrier left between them, Grace doesn't know or care. Nothing matters more than touching and being touched; nothing is more important than the sensuous way they twine together, losing then finding themselves over and over again in the addictive reality of each other's embrace.

He's gentler than she expects when he finally eases into her, joining their bodies together. He pauses to look down at her, his expression a dazed mixture of need and awe, and that's when she knows, without question, that things have changed forever for them both. Whether they ultimately share just one night together or very many more, this won't be a tactfully forgotten misdemeanour, a circumstantial thing best overlooked in the cold light of day. She can see it in his eyes, in the possessive fire that burns there with a heat that almost – _almost_ – frightens her.

They move together, already so well-attuned that they somehow instinctively know when, and where, and how. Every kiss, every caress, every change of tempo somehow natural and seamless. It shouldn't be like this – Grace is far too wise and experienced to think that it should be – but somehow it is. It could be the hundredth, the thousandth time they've done this together, not the very first.

She comes first, shuddering and shaking, even voicing a choked-off mewl of pleasure as the intense sensations wash over, through, and round her. Boyd doesn't last much longer, his last few thrusts hard and disjointed as his jaw locks and his head strains back. From him, there is barely a sound, not when he collapses onto her, barely managing to take any of his weight on his elbows, and not when they clumsily change position to lie side by side, gazing at each other in stunned wonderment.

-oOo-

The warm smoothness of his broad chest is addictive, and, half-dozing and very relaxed, Boyd doesn't make any objection to either the teasing kisses she places there, or the gentle play of her fingertips across his skin. He's so languid, in fact, that several times Grace eyes him with dark suspicion, sure that he's fallen asleep, but every time she does, he somehow senses scrutiny and opens his eyes. Idly exploring as much of his body as she can easily reach without moving from her own comfortable position curled into his side, her wandering fingers encounter a slight, unexpected indentation, low on his flank, just beneath his ribs. Curious, she lifts her head enough to peer at the area, but there's little to see – just a small, round, ragged-edged depression that's somewhat paler than the skin around it. It takes her a moment to understand what she's looking at, and when she does, she's shocked. Appalled, even. Without a doubt it's the old, faded scar left by a gunshot wound.

"Crowden Street," he says, the intonation suggesting it's all the explanation he thinks she needs. "July 'seventy-six."

"The year of the long, hot summer," she whispers, momentarily taken back in time to the scorching heat, the brown, parched grass, to the long drought that led to standpipes in the street for some unlucky households. Her mouth is suddenly very dry and her heart is pounding hard in her chest. _Crowden Street_ … Bad memories start to crowd in on her, and she twists herself up into a semi-seated position to stare at him in a mixture of silent frightened shock and disbelief.

Boyd gazes back, and she doesn't think she's ever seen anyone look so expressionless, so devoid of emotion. "I was just a week shy of my twenty-sixth birthday."

"Boyd…" she manages, but no appropriate words present themselves to her for use, and she doesn't think she could choke them out even if they did.

"People were screaming and shouting," he continues, a faraway look in his eyes, "and I remember thinking that was it – I was going to die, right there on the pavement in the middle of a bloody heatwave."

Grace swallows hard; a tight, convulsive action that doesn't help to release the constriction of her throat. Her voice sounds hoarse and very brittle as she manages, "I didn't… no-one told me… I don't…"

Boyd's expression doesn't change, remains impassive. "I was still in uniform, just three years out of Hendon."

She realises she's trembling, that her stomach is churning. The urge to dash to the tiny bathroom and vomit is strong, but she somehow fights it down, determined not to risk his pity. She doesn't want it, and she certainly doesn't deserve it. It takes a huge effort of will to force out, "I didn't know... I swear I had absolutely no idea."

A thoughtful frown steals away some of the starkness of the stare still fixed on her. "You didn't?"

"How can you ask that?" she demands, sitting up straight. Guilt, misery, and outrage are all fighting inside her for supremacy. The night has turned to ashes around her and she's struggling to even begin to comprehend the enormity of their situation. "Jesus _Christ_ , Boyd… Do you really think I would have joined the investigation if I'd known _you_ were the officer shot that day in Crowden Street?"

Boyd looks startled by the vehemence of her outburst. He shakes his head. "I don't… _didn't_ … know."

"Well I wouldn't have done, purely out of respect for your feelings."

He's frowning now. "I just assumed the Home Office had informed you when they first approached you with Hall's request for a profiler."

"No."

"Well," he says, after a long, long pause, "I don't suppose it matters. Not after all this time."

Grace stares at him, her mind racing. The leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach is getting worse by the moment as each and every painful memory linked to that fateful day twist together into something that threatens to completely overwhelm her. She gets to her feet in a quick, jerky motion that leaves her a fraction off balance, her voice still very hoarse as she says, "I should go."

"Grace." Warm, sinewy fingers lock gently but firmly round her wrist, preventing further movement. "Don't."

-oOo-

The spectre of the Crowden Street shooting – and her part in it – hasn't haunted her every waking moment since it happened, of course, but the unpleasant sting of chagrin and guilt still creeps up on her now and again, and tonight… tonight it is castigating her at full force. Perched on the room's single chair, a modicum of clothing restored, Grace doesn't feel any more confident or any less vulnerable, but the initial strong compulsion to flee seems to have ebbed away, at least for now. Boyd is sitting on the edge of the bed watching her, and he, too, is now at least partially dressed again. It's for the best – complete nudity really wouldn't suit the kind of conversation he seems determined they should have. Trying to at least sound calm, she says, "I believed you. When you said we should go out to dinner and make an effort to get to know each other a bit better, I actually _believed_ you."

"So?" he prompts. "I meant it."

She glares across the room at him. "Oh, _please_. At least do me the courtesy of being honest with me, Boyd."

"I am." He watches her with an air of quiet contemplation that's completely at odds with what she knows about his character. "Grace, if you seriously think this evening was some kind of elaborate set-up that was supposed to lead to a grand dénouement, then you're nowhere near as good a psychologist as your reputation suggests."

"You don't need to lie."

"I'm not." Boyd shrugs, the motion almost arrogant in its nonchalance. "Why would I bother if my intention was to hurt or humiliate you in some way? Christ, it's getting on for twenty years since the day Hewitt went loco. That's a long, long time to hold a grudge."

"Don't try to tell me you don't blame me."

"All right, I won't."

"Thank you."

"I _meant_ that I won't try to tell you that. But I don't. Blame you."

"Well you _should_." Grace knows she sounds defiant, even petulant, but she's still trying so hard to regain even a fraction of her usual equilibrium that she really doesn't care. Angry and guilty, she snaps, "Well, it doesn't come close to being shot, but if it's any consolation, I haven't – "

"No," he interrupts, and she doesn't miss the stubborn edge that's crept into his voice, "I _know_ what happened, and I _know_ where the blame lies; you don't get to wallow in guilt and self-pity. Not with me."

Misplaced anger makes her snarl, "Don't you bloody _dare_. Whether you believe me or not, Boyd, I've never stopped blaming myself, never stopped asking myself why I let – "

Boyd holds up a hand, interrupting her again. His voice is quiet, controlled, the harsh edge gone. "I've read the Powell Report, Grace. Many, many times, in fact. There was absolutely no blame attached to you by the inquiry. They concluded you'd been coerced into co-signing Hewitt's release forms by Doctor Fuller and your senior colleagues."

"I _know_ damn well what they concluded," she bites back, "but it doesn't change the truth, does it? Hewitt wasn't my patient, I knew very little about him, and I _still_ went along with what they wanted me to do."

There's a moment of tense silence, broken by, "Why are you so angry with me, Grace?"

The question is so calm and so direct that it drives straight through all her turbulent thoughts and feelings, makes her focus and take a deep, steadying breath. It's a very good question, one that Boyd has every right to ask. It still cuts deep. She looks down at the floor, not really seeing the blue and grey flecked carpet beneath her feet. It takes her several moments to reply, "Guilt. It doesn't matter what you say, Boyd, whether you think I'm just being self-indulgent or not – I still feel guilty."

Boyd's measured reply is not what she expects. "I got a Commissioner's Commendation for attempting to disarm him, did you know that?"

Grace does not look up. "No."

"We were the first officers on the scene – me and Bill Grafton, the guy I was on patrol with. Knowing Hewitt was armed, we should have held back and just observed the situation, waited for back-up. Bill wasn't having any of that. He was a twenty-year man, and by then he'd pretty much seen and done it all. Old school copper, hard as bloody nails."

Whether it's appropriate or not, Grace's curiosity is piqued and this time she raises her head to look at him. "What happened?"

He holds her gaze. "We knew Hewitt was still in the house, so Bill told me to watch the front while he went round the back. Hewitt must have seen him, though. Something spooked him, anyway, because he came tearing out of the front door like the devil was after him. I didn't think, I just acted. I knew there were kids hanging about trying to watch all the excitement, and I guess my instinct was to try and disarm him as quickly as possible." Boyd lapses into silence and she's tempted to prompt him. Before she can, however, he continues, "He fired twice, but I'd got him down on the ground before I realised I'd been hit. I tried, believe me, but I was shocked, bleeding and in a lot of pain, and I just couldn't hold onto him."

She can almost feel his weariness, his ongoing struggle with the memories of that day. "The report said you were unconscious when the ambulance arrived."

Boyd nods. "I was. Only minutes later D11 cornered him in Hornchurch Crescent and… well, you know the rest."

"He shot himself," Grace murmurs. Staring at the floor again, she says, "Hewitt was a paranoid schizophrenic. He suffered from delusions and he heard voices, but even now I've no reason to doubt Fuller's assertion that he responded well to treatment with chlorpromazine."

"Grace." His voice is firm, but still quiet. "It was _my_ choice to tackle him instead of holding back. It wasn't brave, it was stupid and foolhardy, and I paid the price. Getting shot was my own damned stupid fault."

"Hewitt wouldn't have been there if it hadn't been for me."

"Don't flatter yourself," he says, and though the words are harsh, his tone isn't. "If you'd refused, you know as well as I do what would have happened – they would've found someone else to do it, and your card would have been marked. You were put in an impossible position by your superiors."

She can't help lifting her head again to stare at him. "You're a very singular man, Peter Boyd."

"It has been said," he replies, and the dawning hint of a rueful grin makes her shake her head. They gaze at each other, as if they are both making a careful reassessment of the neutral ground between them.

"I can't work you out. Not at all." It's a grudging admission, one that's almost torn from her.

"And it frustrates the hell out of you, doesn't it?"

"Just a little."

"Just a _lot_ ," Boyd contradicts with a smirk. He gets up and paces towards her. "Look, why don't we start again? DCI Peter Boyd, Wandsworth CID."

Grace considers his outstretched hand for a moment, then reaches out and solemnly shakes it. "Doctor Grace Foley, Home Office psychologist. Pleased to meet you."

-oOo-

It's the unusual and far from unpleasant sensation of someone nuzzling the back of her neck that drags Grace out of a surprisingly peaceful slumber. Opening her eyes, she finds that the hotel room is no longer dark, though the slivers of daylight cutting in through gaps in the closed curtains have a thin, cool quality about them that suggests it's still very early in the morning. Behind her, an increasingly-familiar voice murmurs, "Nice dreams?"

Boyd. A confused jumble of memories, old and new, form into something more coherent. Stretching her back and limbs for a moment, she admits, "I don't remember."

"Should I be offended?" he inquires, an easy amusement quite clear in his tone.

Grace shuffles over onto her back, finds him lying on his side gazing sedately at her. He looks enticingly dishevelled, an attractive masculine picture of heavy morning stubble and tousled dark hair. Her smile is instinctive and natural, as is the way she reaches out to trace a finger down the angular line of his cheekbone. "Not unless it suits you."

Boyd turns his head to kiss her palm, a gentle caress that's far too fleeting. "Helps me get in the right mood for the long, and no doubt highly enjoyable and fulfilling day ahead, you mean?"

She studies him for several long, peaceful moments, finds that he remains largely unfathomable. Again, her inability to read him piques her interest, her curiosity. The sheer number of contradictory and contrary elements of his personality fascinates her, from his easy, almost rakish charm, to his fierce, blistering impatience. There is rage in him, largely hidden until it finds a way to the surface and bursts forth, its cause a mystery to her, but it's tempered by both an equally well-hidden gentleness, and a striking compassion that seems to drive his palpable hunger for justice. Good qualities in a police officer, no doubt, but she already knows – with utter certainty – that his Achilles' Heel is his quick temper, that it's the one deep character flaw that costs him far more than anything else.

"What?" he demands, a touch of irritability underscoring the question.

Grace shakes her head. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"You."

"Don't," Boyd advises, the word delivered a fraction too fast and hard. A reluctant hint of a sheepish grin is followed by, "Trust me, it's a complete waste of your time and talent, _Doctor_."

"I didn't say anything about psychoanalysing you," she points out, "though I suspect it would be a very interesting challenge."

"And," he drawls, "you rather like a challenge, don't you?"

"I rather like _you_." It's a dangerous admission, and she knows it.

He doesn't baulk, however, just replies, "Well, that's a cross you'll just have to learn to bear, Grace."

She eases closer to him, soliciting a kiss he seems eager to bestow. Kissing, caressing, it's all so ridiculously simple, and it doesn't take long for the perplexing spark between them to reignite the heady passion of the previous night. They roll and tussle in an impetuous sensual skirmish that ends as she knew it would – in a fierce, heady storm of pleasure that leaves them both in an a hazy erotic stupor, neither quite awake or quite asleep.

-oOo-

"Lovely," Grace remarks in disdain just over an hour later, as they settle at one of the café's cheap plastic tables. Its faded surface, though clean enough, is stained and scored, and marred by at least one dark cigarette burn. The whole establishment, she thinks, can be summed up by this single table-top. Cheap and cheerful, slightly dilapidated, and not at all the sort of place she would ever have chosen for herself. It's about as far removed from the preceding night's smart, expensive restaurant as it's possible to get.

"Best cheap breakfast this side of the Thames," is Boyd's smug reply. She's not sure if he's joking or not. Tearing open a little white paper sachet of sugar and dumping the entire contents into his mug – not cup – of tea, he adds, "Don't knock it until you've tried it, Grace. Many a poorly-paid young copper coming off the night shift has reason to be thankful for places like this."

"Are you ever not hungry?" she inquires, still reeling at the very notion of facing a large plateful of fried food so early in the morning. When he'd all-but towed her down Marlowe Street towards the unappealing-looking café on the corner she'd been sure he was joking about buying her breakfast. He wasn't.

"I burn it all off in nervous energy," he informs her, stirring his tea.

That, she can easily believe. Though he currently seems rather languid. Sated. Grace smiles inwardly. Yes, that's definitely the word. _Sated_. One of his enthusiastic appetites temporarily blunted, at least. She says, "So… here we are."

Boyd eyes her from the other side of the table, enigmatic again. "Indeed."

 _Where do we go from here?_ she wants to ask. Instead, she tries a less confrontational, "Will you call me?"

Nothing in his expression changes. "Do you want me to?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

"Do I?"

He might be the most infuriating man she's ever met. No question about it. Grace forces herself not to sigh. "You're a detective, Boyd. A bloody DCI, no less."

"That doesn't make me an expert on the complicated thought processes of the fairer sex."

"Plainly." The exchange is interrupted by the arrival of a stout middle-aged woman in a floral apron who lands chunky white plates in front of them with the martyred air of someone who thinks she's doing them a huge favour. There are no pleasantries, and Grace is left staring at two meagre pieces of toast thickly layered in melting butter. Though she assumes the anaemic-looking spread is more likely a cheap, wholesale margarine. Unappetising doesn't come close to an accurate description. It almost makes her envy the extensive and greasy contents of her companion's plate. But not quite. Curling her lip, she says, "You're going to have a heart attack before you're fifty, Boyd, if you carry on eating like that."

"Never. Constitution of an ox," he replies, making a start on the multiple rashers of bacon. The smell is mouth-watering, even if her stomach churns uneasily. She's about to comment when he continues, "Plenty of room on my sofa for a guest who wants to watch the World Cup Final on Sunday morning."

"It starts at some unholy hour, remember?"

He half-shrugs. "So? Come to my place on Saturday and stay over."

She chuckles at his blunt audacity. "You're a real romantic, aren't you?"

"You have no idea," is his lazy reply. It's closely followed by, "Care to find out?"

Grace holds his steady gaze without trepidation or embarrassment. "I think I just might."

"Good." He goes back to eating with a dedication and determination that makes her smirk before making a brave attempt to tackle her toast. It's not quite as bad as it looks, she discovers. Then, just how bad can something as basic as toast actually be?

"I suppose you'll be back at Renforth on Monday?" Boyd says, pausing in his demolition of his breakfast long enough to swallow a mouthful of tea.

"Yes," she agrees. It's a strange thought, really, however used to her semi-peripatetic professional life she's become over the years. Strange, but not perturbing. Back to the familiar routines of daily life working in a secure hospital until the next official request for her services arrives from the courts, the police, or some other official body. She still doesn't know which she prefers most, the stability of one facet of her career, or the adrenaline-fuelled excitement of the other. On a whim, she adds, "Though there's a job coming up at Broadmoor in the near future that I'm quite interested in."

Boyd raises his eyebrows at her. "Broadmoor, eh? Not one for an easy life, are you?"

Her train of thought diverted elsewhere, Grace ponders for a moment before saying, "There's something I didn't ask you last night."

"About?"

"The Powell Report." She doesn't miss the way his gaze becomes sharper, much more focused. When he doesn't interrupt, she continues, "Why was your name redacted?"

Boyd visibly relaxes, leans back in his chair. "Well, if you're a conspiracy theorist, it was because Hewitt was an innocent and unarmed victim of police brutality, and the subject of an officially-sanctioned cover-up."

Astonished, she asks, "People really believe that?"

"Some people. They argue that without serious underworld contacts – which everyone knows he simply didn't have – he couldn't possibly have obtained a firearm so soon after leaving Carlton Manor. Not back then, not in the 'seventies. That the story that he acquired it in the very first burglary he committed after he was released was just that – a story."

"I had no idea." Grace shakes her head. It astonishes her how easily people are able to start believing the most outlandish things. "I suppose some people just don't like simple explanations. You didn't answer my question, though."

"The truth is far more mundane – by the time the report was published, I was part of Operation Antelope."

She dimly remembers the news stories, the questions asked at the very highest level and subsequently leaked to an ever-eager press. "Searching out the Met's bent coppers?"

"Attempting to. Some of them."

"I see. Hence the need for anonymity." Wiping toast crumbs from her fingers, Grace considers the information. "Well, I suppose – "

"Grace," he interrupts, "we went through all this last night. I'm sick to death of talking about it. Let it be."

She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. Perhaps he's right. Instead, she offers a deadpan, "That's a song, you know."

"An apposite one." Boyd nearly smiles. " _'Speaking words of wisdom…'_ "

"' _Let it be'_ ," she finishes for him. Somehow she knows they're in each other's lives for good now, in whatever capacity time and circumstance care to dictate.

"Savile Row, 'sixty-nine," he announces, setting down his cutlery on his now empty plate.

The statement isn't quite as random as it seems, not to someone who thoroughly enjoyed a very large part of the 'sixties. "Ah, the now-legendary rooftop concert."

"I was there."

"Oh, come _on_ ," she scoffs. "Boyd, if everyone who claimed to be there actually had been, there would have been a couple of million people packing the surrounding streets – which there weren't."

"True, but _I_ was."

"You're such an outrageous liar," she accuses.

He gesticulates – irritably and far too quickly – and accidentally sends his still half-full mug of tea flying. The curses that follow are loud, vehement, and inventive. She watches as he tries to clean up the mess using the small and woefully inadequate paper napkins provided with their cutlery. Indicating the dark wet patch on his shirt, he grumbles, "Fuck's bloody sake…"

"It's a horrible shirt, anyway," she consoles him. "Very cheap and nasty. Not your usual style at all."

"Yeah, well, I didn't have time to go home and change, and it was the best I buy _en route_ to the restaurant last night," Boyd grumbles. "Christ… look at the state of it…"

"You'll just have to go home and change, won't you?"

"I'm already late for work. This is _your_ bloody fault."

Chuckling, she inquires, "How on earth is it _my_ fault?"

"For impugning my honesty and integrity."

"Ah, I see. Well, for what it's worth, I still don't believe you."

"Suit yourself," he says. "Great start to a long and beautiful friendship, Gracie."

She fixes him with a cold glare. "I warned you – _don't_ call me that."

Boyd grins at her, his ill-humour apparently forgotten in an instant. "Tomorrow, my place?"

Grace regards him for a moment. She has a strong sense of dawning resignation, a gut feeling that she's agreeing to far more than either of them actually realise. But, damn, who could resist that wicked, mischievous grin…

"Tomorrow," she confirms, "your place. Better give me your address, then, hadn't you…?"

 _\- the end -_


End file.
